Category: murder

Mary clutched the flyer in her hand. The bitten nails, painted black, stark against the red paper. The white writing proclaiming a need for models a lie she chose to pretend to believe.

Mary was 23 and tired. She had been on the street since her thirteenth birthday when she had run away from her step father’s prying fingers. It was easy for a pretty girl to make money on the street. It had got harder as she had got older and by 24 she knew she was beyond her prime. The men still came and paid, but they wanted more for their money. And some of them beat her and refused to pay her.

She was tired.

So very very tired.

All the working girls knew the strange artist in the loft. He greeted them but had never bought one of them. He tipped his old-fashioned hat at them when he walked past, bags filled with artist supplies. They would see him in the half-light of dusk and dawn collecting rubbish he used in his art. He gathered debris from the streets, the objects discarded by others, and reshaped them into art.

Mary had seen some of the work he had done; cans and bottles and old newspapers shaped into woman’s bodies, feathers and scraps of old carpets adding texture to the naked, luxurious bodies he conjured up from the detritus of life.

And then Mary had seen him talk to Susan one morning. And she had watched Susan go into the loft.

Susan had never come back out again but weeks later a painting had emerged, covered in cloth. A gentle breeze had lifted the edge of the cloth and Mary had briefly seen Susan’s eyes looking out at her, her red dress revealing.

And a few days later Mary had seen the advert in the diner.

Models wanted

And Mary knew that she too would be picked up, scraped off the pavement, and turned into art.

Red snapped the suspended buckle onto her red stockings and straightened up. She smoothed the three inches of skirt she was wearing over her thighs and slid into her leather boots. Her breasts bulged under the tight lacy blouse she had squeezed into and readjusted to maximise the effect. She checked her basket and smiled at the contents. The chequered blanket went over the top and she tucked it in tightly.

She heard Wolf’s motorbike before he even turned into the street. He was early; she knew he would be.

They were off to meet a woman they had met on ‘like-you-like-me.com’; a website for ‘adventurous’ couples. Red hadn’t been so keen to start with; she thought just the two of them was enough. But Wolf (Warren actually – he had decided to be Wolf when swinging) had threatened to leave and so she had capitulated.

She was very surprised to discover that she quite enjoyed the role-playing. She was a bit bored with being Little Red Ridinghood, but her red hair did lend itself to it. Maybe goldilocks next week and then he can be in a bear suit! Red chuckled at that thought as she opened the door to Warren.
‘Hello Warren,’ she said ‘um, I mean Wolf.’
Her boyfriend smiled down at her, his greying hair flipped back over his broad forehead. She looked at him with his wide side burns and long nose and thought, not for the first time, that he did look rather wolf-like.

‘So, who are we meeting tonight?’ he asked, checking the basket.
‘Someone called Bella. She seemed fine; a bit downtrodden.’
‘Just like we like them.’

Red got onto the back of Wolf’s bike. She knew her skirt was so short that the drivers behind her could see the red lace-and-leather underwear. She smiled a secret smile and slid closer to Wolf.

They arrived at the discrete club perfectly on time. No one lifted an eyebrow when they walked in; Mother Goose was at the Jukebox, Little Miss Muffet sat with her hands down the pants of Jacky Horner in a dark corner and Snow White danced slowly around a pole in the middle of the room.

They walked up to the bar and ordered drinks.
‘Big night I see,’ said Popeye the barman, eying the basket.

Ten minutes later the manager approached them with the news that Bella was not going to make it. She had phoned and said her sisters had insisted she look after their aging father tonight. Irritated they both finished their drinks and considered leaving.

It was then that she walked in. He was too perfect for them not to notice. Dressed in a flowering housedress with sensible shoes and a scarf over her head, she looked like destiny.

It took all of ten minutes for Red, Wolf and Granny to leave the bar. They walked up to Granny’s flat, not far from the fetish bar. Red unpacked her basket and Granny blanched. ‘I am not so sure about all that leather,’ she said. ‘And whips are not my thing really.’

Wolf leapt on her as she tried to reach the door.
‘Too late you old hag’ he growled at her as he and Red tied her to the bed. Her screams were halted by a gingham cloth thrust into her mouth.

Three hours later, satiated and drenched with sweat, Red removed the rag from the woman’s mouth.
“Oh shit. I think she is not breathing.’
‘What? No no no. This is never the plan.’
‘Well it’s happened. What are we going to do?’

Red and Wolf tied the woman up, wrapped her in a blanket and shoved her into the cupboard. They sprinkled vanilla essence on her to halt the discovery of the body and wiped the room clean.

Six days later, Michelle, a newly brunette hairdressing assistant and her boyfriend Warren, a crew cut bleach blonde, watched with the rest of the onlookers as the corpse of the unknown woman was removed from the flat.

Lefty wrote a sickish story about killing your dinner
I loved his story
and so decided to write my version thereof

and here it is

Hilton was very excited because his new friend Jesse was coming over for dinner. He had just returned from the grocery store with supplies for the evening and was busy packing them out on the counter: potatoes, rice, peas, gravy and a leg of lamb to roast.

After getting the food started, he went to the dining room to prepare the table. Hilton was a meticulous man, everything had to be perfect. It took him half an hour, but it was worth every second, the table was perfect.

He dimmed the lights, lit the candles and waited. Jesse was going to be there any second now. From where he sat, he could see the road in front of his apartment. He watched in a relaxed way for Jesse’s car.

Hilton hurried back into the kitchen to check the food. Once there, he realised that the rice was boiling over. Quickly he grabbed the pot and took it off the plate. As he was busy, the bell rang. He looked up and out of the window. Jesse’s car was not in the street.

“I hope this is not some random visitor’” he thought, “not tonight”

Hilton opened the door and was surprised to see Jesse.

“Where did you park?” he asked.

“Round the back,” said Jesse. “It just seemed easier,” he explained.

The dining room took Jesse’s breath away. He had never seen such a beautifully layed out table. Scarlet place set accompanied by a napkin of the same shade on a snowy table cloth. Two long candles, throwing shadows around the room, in silver candle sticks. Silver cutlery, laid out neatly.

“Ahhh okay,” said Hilton hoping that perhaps Jesse had parked so that no one could see his arrival because he planned to stay the night. “Did you bring the wine, I could do with a glass?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Jesse as he lent forward and put his hand into the bag he was carrying.
Hilton’s eyes widened with surprise and disbelief as Jesse thrust the sharp stiletto into his throat. A bubble of blood oozed from around the knife’s handle. Jesse grabbed him as he fell and lay him on the floor, funnel and bucket already ready.

Later that evening, satiated by the roast meal he had eaten, Jesse sat on Hilton’s couch, a glass of ruby red liquid in his hand, and smiled.